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FLIRTATION 

MADE EASY; 



OR, 



THE ART REVEALED. 



TOGETHEE WITH 



Poetry of Love and Flowers. 



BY PAUL.INE CiARCl . 

New York: 
New York Popular Publishing Co. * 
Main Office, 37 Bond St. 
Coloring, Printing and Engraving Dep'ts, 18 Rose St. _ 

k J j.t, \ Proprtetoi 






r 



Watered according to Act of Congress In the year 1883, b^j 

Dick & Stecher, 
in the Office of th* librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. 



INTRODUCTION. 



/ltbout doubt we should write an introduction to tbk 

Sanation of the Art of Flirtation, but we find it to be at 

possibility. Were it possible to illustrate, nothing 

jld give us greater pleasure ; but as it is, we will cora- 

Ince with our subject at once, hoping that a perusal of 

l:se pages may* not only prove interesting, but be $h& 

linbie means of introducing many to the object of tbek 

Ive, who might otherwise never have an opportunity of 



■glaring their intentions. 



PAULINE GARCIA* 



Flirtation as an Art. 



Handkerchief Flirtation. 

across the mouth signifies that the holder desires an 



awn 
lint?, 
awi 
awj 

rawing , 

)rawino i across the eyes — I am sorry. 

>roppin£ 



icross the cheek plainly declares — I love you. 

across the forehead is intended to convey tk* £afi£ 
>s are being watched. 



through the hands— I hate you. 
^ie handkerchief — We will be friends. 
jf -I wish to speak with you. 
£ est on the right cheek — Yes. 



jetting 

netting 

netting 

)pposiU 

)ver thr 

Placing 

flitting 




est on the left cheek — Xo. 

emain on the eyes — You are so cruel. 

)rners in both hands — Do wait for me. 

houlder — Follow me. 

over the right ear — How you have changed. 

in the pocket — Xo more love at present. 

by the centre — You are most too willing.. 

t in the right hand — I love another. 

t in both hands — Indifference. 

t around the forefinger — I am engaged. 

t around the third finger — I am married. 



-:o:- 



Glove Flirtation. 

Biting the tips — I wish to be rid of you very sod^* 
Clinching them, rolled up, in right hand — Ne 



FLIRTATION AS AN ART. 

'Drawing half way on left hand — Indifference 

Dropping botli of them — I love you. 

Dropping one of them — Yes. 

Folding them up v?arefuily — Get rid of your company. 

Holding with tips downward — I wish to be acquainted. 

Holding them loose in the right hand — Be contented. 

Holding them loose in the left hand — I am satisfied. 

Left hand with the naked thumb exposed — Do you love me 1 

Putting them away — I am vexed. 

Right hand with the naked thumb exposed — Kiss me. 

Smoothing them out gently — I wish I were with you. 

Striking them over the hand — I am displeased. 

•Striking them over the shoulder — Follow me. 

Tapping the chin — I love another. 

Tossing them up gently — T am engaged. 

Turning them inside out — I hate you. 

Twirling them around the fingers — Be careful, we are wai 

Using them as a fan — Introduce me to your company. 



-:o:- 



Fan Flirtation. 

Carrying in right hand — You are two willing. 

•Carrying in right hand in front of face — Follow me. 

Carrying in left hand — Desirous of an acquaintance. 

Closing it — I wish to speak with you. 

Drawing across the forehead — We are watched. 

drawing across the cheek — I love you. 

Drawing across the eyes — I am sorry. 

Drawing through the hand — I hate you, 

Dropping -the fan— We will be friends. 

Fanning fast — I am engaged. 

Fanning slow — I am married. 

Letting it rest on the right cheek — Yes. 

Letting it rest on the left cheek — No. 

Open and shut — You are cruel. 

Opened wide — Wait for me. 



FLIRTATION AS AN ART. 



Shutting: it — I have changed. 
Placing it on the right ear — You have changed. 
Twirling in left hand — I wish to get rid of you. 
Twirling in right hand — I love another. 
With handle to lips — Kiss mo. 



~:o: 



Parasol Flirtation. 

Carrying it elevated in the left hand — Desiring an acquaintance. 
Carrying it elevated in the right hand — You are too willing. 
Carrying it closed in the left hand — Meet on the first crossing. 
Carrying it closed in the right hand by the side — Follow me. 
Carrying it in front of you — No more at present. 
Carrying it over the right shoulder— You can speak to me. 
Carrying it over the left shoulder — You are too cruel. 
Closing it up — r wish to speak to you, love. 
Dropping it — T love you. 

End of tip to lips — Do you love me. 

Folding it up — Get rid of your company. 

Letting it rest on the right cheek — Yes. 

Letting it rest on the left cheek. — No. 

Striking it on the hand — I am very much displeased. 

Swinging it to and fro by the handle on the left side — I am engaged 1 

Swinging it to and fro by the handle on the right side — I am mar. 
ned. 

Tapping the chin gently — T am in love with another. 

Twirling it around — Be careful, we are watched. 

Using it as a fan — Introduce me to your company. 

With handle to lips — Kiss me 



:o:- 



8 

THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

Drummond describes his lady-love as follows: — 

O sacred blush, enpurpling cheeks, pure skies, 

With crimson wings, which spread thee like the 
morn, 
O bashful look, sent from those shining eyes, 

O tongue, in which most luscious nectar lies, 
That can at once both bless and make forlorn, 

Dear coral lip, which beauty beautifies, 
That trembling stood before her words were boJ 

And you her words — words ! no, but golden chaj 
Which did ensnare my ears, enslave my soul ! 

Wise image of her mind — mind that contains i 
A power, all power of senses to control ; 

So sweetly you from love dissuade do me, 

That I love more ; if more my love can be." 

Mackey remarks in a song:- 

" What is it ails\hee, heart of mine? 
That makes thee sorrow and repine, 
And in sweet Nature's face no more 
Take the same pleasure as before? 

4 * Why, when the flowrets gem the ground, 
And birds make music all around, 
And each created thing is glad. 
Art thou so desolate and sad? 

*' Time was, when not a bird could spring, 
But thou wert pleased to hear it sing, 
When woods and wilds were fair to see, 
And sunshine beautiful to thee. 

" Sad heart of mine! by love alone 
The darkness and the blight are thrown. 
'Tis falsehood causes thy annoy ; 
Thou'st lost thy lover and thy joy. 

" Oh, fate ! my happy time renew — 
All nature smiles when love is true ; 
Would he be kind, I'd not be sad, 



leoi 



9 

THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

And little things should make me glad. 

" Once more for me the birds should sing, 
And birds make music with the spring, 
And Nature's voice resound with glee, 
Were my false love but true to me." 

Roses have always been called " love's flowers:" — 

' ' We are blushing roses, 

Bending with our fullness, 
'Midst our close-capped sister buds 

) Warming the green coolness. 

" Whatsoe'er of beauty 
Yearns and yet reposes, 
Blush, and bosom, and sweet breath, 
Took a shape in roses. 

" Hold one of us lightly — 
See from what a slender 
Stalk we bower in heavy blooms, 
And roundness rich and tender. 

" Know you not our only 

Rival flower — the human? 
Loveliest weight on lightest foot, • 
Joy abundant woman!" 



tie origin of the pansy or forget-me-not, is thus told: 



Frolic virgins once there were, 
Ever loving, living here — 
Being here their ends denied, 
Ran for sweethearts mad, and died. 

Love, in pitie of their tears, 

And their losse in blooming yeares, 

For their restlesse here spent houres, 

Gave them heart's ease turned to flowers. 'V, 



THE POETRY OF LOVBJ. 

Earl Pembroke's description of " Love in the Coun- 
try " is esteemed very beautiful : 

11 Dear, leave thy home and come with me, 
That scorn the world for love of thee ; 
Here we will live within this park, 
A court of joy and pleasure's ark, 

4 Here we will hunt, here we will range; 
Constant in love, our sports we'll change; 
Of hearts, if any change we make, 
I will have thine, thou mine shall take. 

4i Here we will wait upon the lawns, 
And see the tripping of the fawns ; 
And all the deer shall wait on thee — 
Thou shalt command both them and me. 

4i The leaves a whispering noise shall make, 
Their music notes the birds shall wake ; L 

And while thou art in quiet sleep, 
Through the green wood shall silence keep. 

And while my herds about thee feed, 
Love's lessons in thy face I'll read ; 
And feed upon thy lovely look, 
For beauty hath no fairer book. 

It's not the weather, nor the air, 

It is thyself that looks so fair ; 

Nor doth it rain when heaven lowers, 

But when you frown then fall the showers, 

Ai One sun alone moves in the sky — 
Two suns thou hast, one in each eye ; 
Only by day that sun gives light — 
When thine dost rise there is no night. 

44 Fair starry twins, scorn not to shine 
Upon my lambs, upon my kine ; 
My grass doth grow, my corn and wheat, 
My fruit, my vines, thrive by their heat. 



41 



4i 



:i 

THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

u Thou shalt have wool, thou shalt have silk,. 
Thou shalt have honey, wine and milk ; 
Thou shalt have all, for all is due 
Where thoughts are free and love is true," 

A lady thus pictures the difference between the lov# 
£ man and woman : — 

M To sigh for hours at Beauty's feet, 
To start when rival steps draw near, 
With ardent warmth her glance to meet, 
And pour soft flatteries in her ear ; 
To kneel till won by fairer forms 
And brighter eyes, and then forsake, 
And while new hope, new fancy warms, 
To leave her aching heart to break. 
This passion haunts our earthly span— 
This is the wavering love of Man. 

" To seek one form in early youth, 
To court no gaze, no vow beside, 
To hold through life a holy truth, 
Which firmest proves when deepest tried, * 
And like the diamond's sparkling light 
Can halls and palaces illume, 
Yet shines more cheering and more bright 
In scenes of darkness and of gloom; 
This faith descends from realms above — 
This, this is Woman's changeless love I" 

The twilight seems to be a favorite time with lovers.. 
Mrs. Norton says: — 

* Dear art thou to the lover, thou sweet light, 
Fair, fleeting sister of the mournful night ! 
As in impatient hope he stands apart, 
Companioned only by his beating heart ; 
And with an eager fancy oft beholds 
The vision of a white robe's fluttering folds 
Flit through the grove, and gain the open mead, 
True to the hour by loving hearts agreed ! j 

At length she comes. The evening's holy grace 



1 

THE POETRY OF LOYE. 

Mellows the glory of her radiant face ; 
The curtain of that daylight faint and pale, 
Hangs round her like the shading of a veil ; 
As turning with a bashful timid thought 
From the dear welcome she herself hath sought, 
Her shadowy profile draw against the sky 
Cheats while it charms his fond adoring eye." 
The Italian poets seem to have devoted themselves 

particularly to the subject of Love. Petrarch sa? 

1 ' Bright happy flowers ! and herb so bounteous f ev 
O'er which my Laura's modelled foot hath stept 
Ye meads! that have her words' sweet music ke\ 
Nor yet restored the impress of her tread. \ 

" Unfettered shrubs ! ye leaves so freshly shed ! 
Pale violets ! where Love hath fondly crept ; 
Ye woods ! whose shade doth Phebus intercept, 
And in his stolen beams so proudly spread. 

4 ' Sweet landscape! stream! that doth so purely] 
roam, 
From laving oft her beauteous face and eyes, 
Thou wanderest clear in their reflected light. \ 
I envy ye, so near her modest home ! 
No rock among ye habit's law defies, 
But owns alike the flame my soul doth blight." 



Look as a lover, with a lingering kiss 
About to part with the best half that's his ; 
Fain would he stay, but that he fears to do it, 
And curseth the time for so fast hastening to it ! 
Now takes his leave, and yet begins anew 
To make less vows than are esteemed true ; 
Then says he must be gone, and then doth find 
Something he should have said, now out of mind 
Then turns, comes back, sighs, pants, and yet dot 

go, 
Apt to retire, yet loth to leave her so ; 

So part I. 



13 

THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

Love is life's end; an end, but never ending; 
All joys, all sweets, all happiness awarding ! 
Love is life's wealth, ne'er spent, but ever spending^ 
More rich by giving, taking by discarding ; 
Love's life's reward, rewarded in rewarding ; 
Then, from thy wretched heart fond care remove; 
Ah ! shouldst thou live but once love's sweets to 

prove ! 
Thou wilt not love to live, unless thou live to love. 



Now let us live our love ; in after hours 
Words shall fit handmaids to sweet memory be; 

But let them not disturb those holier bowers, 
The voiceless depths of perfect sympathy. 

That "love and grief" often go hand in hand is 
beautifully expressed, as follows : — 

" Whenever under bows of myrtle 

Love, summer-tressed and vernal-eyed, 
At morn or eve is seen to wander, 
A dark-eyed girl is at his side. 

! * No eye beholds the virgin gliding 

Unsandaled through the thicket's glooms; 
Yet some have marked her shadow moving 
Like twilight o'er the whiter blooms. 



a 



a 



A golden bow the brother carries, 
A silver lute the sister bears ; 

And ever at the fatal moment 
The notes and arrows fly in pairs. 

She rests her flute upon her bosom 
(While up to heaven his bow he rears), 

And as her kisses make it tremble, 
That flute is moistened by her tears. 

44 The lovely twain were born together, 
And in the same shell cradle laid, 
And in the bosom of one mother 
Together slept, and sleeping, played. 



1 



H 

THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

<4 With hands into each other's woven, 

And whispering lips that seemed to teach 
Each other in their rosy motion 
What still their favorites learn from each. 

w Proud of her boy, the mother showed him 
To mortal and immortal eyes, 
But hid (because she loved her dearer) 
The deeper, sweeter mystery. 

" Accept them both, or hope for neither, 
Oh, loveliest youth or maid lovelorn, 
For grief has come when love is welcome, 
And love will comfort those who mourn. 

A poet says : — 

" I know an eye whose tender light 
Beams pure and exquisitely bright. 
One only look can love and bless, 
And more than many words express. 
Upon that look I love to dwell, 
And think of all it says so well: 
For it can punish and forgive — 
Can make the wretched glad to live, . 

Can weep, and smile, and blame, and praisei 
Can every noble feeling raise. 
And now it does my heart entrance, 
For well I understand each glance. 
But wherefore should this make me sigh? 
Is it because I love that eye? 

" I know a heart so good, so true, 
With every thought so fresh, so new, 
So gentle, tender, soft and kind — 
Another one I ne'er could find. 
Into that heart I dared to look, 
One view— one only view I took; 
But that sufficed, for it did show 
The only thing I care to know ; 
How, e'en before my voice can tell 
The thing I wish, 'tis known full well— 



THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

And whether sad or gay my mood, 
By that dear heart I'm understood. 
But why does this such joy impart? 
Is it because I love that heart? 

The forgetfulness of love is thus beautifully poar- 
tray ed : — 

*< 'Forget thee? If to dream by night, and muse odl 

thee by day, 
If all the worship deep and wild, a poet's heart cobl 

pay, 
If prayers in absence breathed for thee to Heaven's 

protecting power, 
If winged thoughts that flit to thee, a thousand in 

an hour, 
If busy fancy blending thee with all my future 

lot— 
If this thou call'st ' forgetting,' thou indeed shall be 

forgot. 

11 * Forget thee?'— Bid the forest birds forget their 
sweetest tune. 
'Forget thee?' — Bid the sea forget to swell beneath 

the moon ; 
Bid the thirsty flowers forget to drink the eve's re- 
freshing dew ; 
Thyself forget thine 'own dear land,' and its moun- 
tains wild and blue ; 
Forget each other familiar face, each long remem- 
/ bered spot, 

, When these tnings are forgot by thee, then thou 
J shalt be forgot. 

*' Keep, if thou wilt, thy maiden peace still calm and 
( fancy free, 

For God forbid ! thy gladsome heart should grow less 

glad for me. 
Yet, while that heart is still unwon, oh! bid not; 

mine to rove, 
But let it nurse its humble faith and uncomplaining; 
tove; 



16 

THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

If these, preserved for patient years, at last avail 

me not, 
Forget me then — but ne'er believe that thou canst 

be forgot !" 

The all-conquering greatness of love is given in the 
bold wooer's words : — 

Is love so small and poor a thing 

That you can thus despise it? 
A better gift I could not bring, 
Although I might disguise it ; 
But, decked with crown or coronet, 
I would not have you, maid, forget 
That love is love, and not a jot 
A fairer thing in court than cot. 

So, maiden, put aside your scorn 
And look at love more kindly ; 
For is there any other born 

Who worships you so blindly? 
Nay ! do not smile, and frown, and pout, 
And torture me with hint and doubt; 
For love deserves a better fate 
Than to be waiting at your gate. 

Deliver up your heart, and make 

No plea and vain condition ; 
Or, if you need a guerdon, take 

My own, without suspicion ; 
For, cruel child, you have to learn 
How love delights to sting and burn. 
And, if you will not kiss and cure it, 
May you with triple pangs endure it! 

Pride has rendered many lives miserable through 
some trifle like this : — 

I could not hear all that they must have said ; 
But as I sat beside the little stream 
I watched them part, with just one angry word. 
She passed me quickly, with a down drooped head, 



17 

THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

gRed cheeks, eye flashing with a scornful gleam, 
A hasty step, as by deep passion stirred ; 
She did not turn, nor look back where he stood ; 
But vanished quickly in the thick green wood. 

I watched him sigh, then noted how he gazed 
At her retreating form; he whistled low 
And softly to himself; in deepest thought 
He whispered, " Is she vexed?" — then was amazed 
That 'twas in truth, she really meant to go. 
He looked once more, as if indeed he sought 
To bring her back ; but on she went that day — 
Then he went too— but 'twas the other way. 

They never met again ; but oft I see 
| The girl, a woman grown, come by this seat, 
" And gaze into the stream with tear-worn eyes ! 
And then I wonder why such things should be. 
If she had turned her head, or stayed her feet, 
Life would have altered, love's bright, sunny skies 
Shone o'er her ever ! 'Tis but things like this 
That form our lives, and make our woe or bliss! 

The lover who could take his disappointment so calm- 
ly, was no ordinary philosopher : 

Does my vision deceive? I can scarcely believe 

That I look on your face once again ; 
The remembrance of which makes this heart ever heave 

With pleasing emotions of pain. 
The same sunny smile, the same rippling laugh, 

Now rings in my ears as of yore, 
While I feel that I'm loving more wildly, by half, 

Than ever I have done before. 

What pleasure it gives me to look on your face, 
. And watch the bright beams from your eyes, 
As we sit all alone in the same dear old place 

Where love's first emotions did rise — 
Where Cupid's sly dart first quivered my heart 

And wrung from it sad, hopeless sighs, 
When I found that from you I in anguish must part, 



THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

As another had captured the prize. 
Good-bye, little rosebud ! And may peace and content 

Your portion through life ever be, 
And if to my wishes you cannot assent, 

At least cast a thought upon me. 
And if we can ever be nothing but friends, 

The best of good friends we must be ; 

But remember, to be anything else quite depends 

On the least little signal from thee. 

To define love would puzzle a lexicographer, but its 
presence proclaims to the soul its deep meaning: — 

He never speaks of love, but oft his eyes 

With quiet earnest meaning rest on me, 
While a chance meeting seems a glad surprise — 
\ Oh! if it be not love, what can it be? 

Sometimes he silent sits, when if I speak, 
The quick response comes low and thrillingly, 

He reads my thought instinctive on my cheek — 
Oh ! if it be not love, what can it be? 

* Searching my soul he claims it joy to find 

Tastes, feelings, hopes, all with his own agree, 
And asks what more heart unto heart can bind — 
Oh ! if it be not love, what can it be? 

Last eve when Maude swept by with queenly air, 
The jewels flashing on her forehead free, 

*'■ Sweeter/' he said, ki the wild rose in your hair" — 
Oh ! if it be not love, what can it be? 



As by a shining gate, at twilight dim, 
I sit and wait until he turns the key, 

When will he ope? If 'tis not love with him, 
Oh ! my sick heart, 'tis life or death with me ! 

The sadness of one who mourns a lost love is pathet- 
ically depicted in the following: — 



19 

THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

"When the eve is growing gray, and the tide is rolling 

in, 
I sit and look across the bay to the bonny town of 
Lynn; 

And the fisherfolks are near, 
But I wis they never hear 
The songs the far bells make for me, the bonny bells of 
Lynn. 

The folks are chatting gay, and I hear their merry din, 
But I look and look across the bay to the bonny town 
of Lynn ; 

He told me to wait here 
Upon the old brown pier, 
To wait and watch him coming when the tide was roll- 
ing in. 

Oh I see him pulling strong, pulling o'er the bay to me, 
And I hear his jovial son^, and his merry face I see; 
And now ! he s at the pier, 
My bonny love and dear ! 
And he's coming up the sea- washed steps with hands 
outstretched to me. 

O my love, your cheek is cold, and your hands are 

stark and thin ! 
O hear you not the bells of old, the bonny bells of 
Lynn? 

O have you nought to say 
Upon our wedding day? 

Love, hear you not the wedding bells across the Bay of 

Lynn? 
my lover, speak to me ! and hold me fast, mine own ! 
For I fear this rising sea, and these winds and waves 

that moan? 



But never a word he said ! 
He is dead, my love is dead ! 
Ah me ! ah me ! I did but dream : and I am all alone, 



i 





THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

Alone, and old, and gray; and the tide is rolling in; 
But my heart's away, away, in the old graveyard at 
Lynn! 

Ferguson thus describes a bitter ending of love : — 
She clung to him, and her golden hair 

Hung loose and heavy; her face was white 
With the pallor of tears and a great despair, 
While the pale moon gleamed through the 
darkening night. 

The river sang as it passed them by ; 

The sere leaves rustled, the dead leaves fell; 
Thin clouds went drifting across the sky, 

And the wind had a sorrowful tale to tell. 

Like a frail flow'r crushed with the beating rain, 
She clung and sobbed through her blinding \ 
tears ; 
She knew he might never come again 
From the crashing guns and the clanging 
spears — 

From the clanging- spears and the crashing guns, 
And the terrible wars on a distant shore, 

Where the first lives lost were the noblest ones— 
And she should look on his face no more ! 

But he was bearded and bronzed and stern, 
Yet even his strength for a moment failed, 

As he murmured something of " swift return," 
With lips that quivered and cheeks that paled 

" O love," she said, and her voice was faint 
As the wailing winds in the waving trees, 

Whose ghostly shadows, forlorn and quaint, 
Swung to and fro in the passing breeze — 

" O love," she said, "what were death to this?" 
And the low voice died in a trembling moan. 

One passionate clasp, one farewell kiss, 
And she stood in the desolate night alone. 



1 

THE POETRY OF LOVE. 



The fight is done and the field is won, 

And the land lies red with its crimson stain, 

Where the noblest hearts under all the sun 
Have fallen never to rise again— 

But one who sprang from the rear at last, 
And led the rally that gained the day, 

They turn to seek him with looks aghast, 
And each man knows what he fears to say. 

The foremost mid, and the first of all 

In the frozen heaps of the brave ones slain, 

There, hewn with saber, and pierced with ball, 
They found him stretched on the reeking plain. 

They raised the head that might not resist, 
While the death-damps gathered; he faintly 

sighed, 
But something he clutched from his heart and 

kissed, 
Then smiled a little, fell back, and died. 

It was a woman's face in a simple frame 
His lips had pressed— as an angel's fair ; 

It bore no record of place or name, 
But blood lay dank on the golden hair. 

And they, who saw it could understand 
How bitter the end of Love may be — 

A pictured face in a dead man's hand, 
And a young heart broken across the sea. 

The power of love is manifested in the musings of 
the despairing wretch who, when the restraining influ- 
ence is taken from him, sink s into the abject mockery 
of man: 

Night, rain and storm along the glooming strand ! 
The flickering gaslights, catching at the wind, 
Held on a second, and then dropped behind, 



THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

Dead, with one leap in the dark. 

On either hand 
The tall, gaunt houses, soaked in darkness, dripped 
Their gloom upon the storm, and shuddering, 
Inch-deep with rain, beneath the tempest's wing, 
Like some dull stream the pavement crawled and 
crept. 

One slipshod figure, in the dismal night, 

Lounged onward through alternate dark and light, 
His breast was naked, and his dirty chin 

Was thrust against the scornful storm in scorn ; 
His face was vile with years of drink and sin, 
And yet his bleared eyes had a light within 

That mocked the night and his estate forlorn. 

And past his pipe he muttered as he went, ,. 

'They'll hardly say my final chance was spent. 

I'm wealthy — might drag on another week, 
And in the interim I might repent, 

With due submission eat the Gospel leek, 
Drown Sin's coarse flavors with a stronger scent, 

Stink of salvation through my latter day, 

And spend my life's fag-end in prayer and praise : 
Cheat God and swindle Satan at a throw, 
My only pain a pang of pride or so ! 

How strange a w^orld we live in ! Here's a soul 

Sent on to death by death. Not that I grumble : 

On Life's wild road death is your only goal. 

The grave's your final, not your only stumble. 

Had Lucy held life's footing somewhat longer — 

Who knows? Her hands were weak and yet 
they held 

A sort of power that made my sick soul stronger 
Than in such craven sort as this to yield. 

Poor little girl ! I was a fool to doubt you ; 

And when I learned that you were dead, I knew 

That I could scarcely hope to live without you, 
Though I had been as false as you were true ! 



THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

Is this the end? If one could make an end ! 

But Hamlet made that doubtful long ago ; 
And, now life's motley is too worn to mend, 

My naked soul is not a seemly show ! 
Ah, well ! my part in life's bald farce is played ; 

I cast my coat, and quit the masquerade ! 

That fancy's neatly put; but here I stand 

By no quaint phrases saved from my own scorn • 

The burden gathered with a willing hand 
Is no whit easier, therefore, to be borne. 

My back aches, and I let the burden fall, 
And here's the place to drop it ! 

There he came 
To that grim bridge which owns a battle's name, 
And still, through death, keeps up a grisly fame ; 
And paid his toll, and, leaning on the wall, 

Looked downward to the river's sulky gleam, 
Which, like the river in a doleful dream, 
With mournful voices twined in gleam and gloom. 
Moaned ' Fly from death !' and whispered * Come to 
doom !' 

At those blent voices grown quite resolute, 
On the stone bench he planted one firm foot, 

When a faint cry, which was not of the storm, 
Or of the river, struck the tempest mute, 

Within his ears at least, and drenched, but warm, 
He felt the cloth which draped a tiny form. 

4 What's here?' said he. There rose a sturdy wail, 
And baby-lungs did battle with the gale. 

~^me mother found the heart to leave you 

God bli fe . e world ! — in such infernal weather. 
I've nothing special in the way of cheer 
To give a child, but what I have, my dear, 

We,' said the vagabond, * will share together.' 

'Tis a cold couch for tender limbs like yours, 
Yet not without its merits, for it cures 



THE POETRY OF LOVE. 

All aches and ills the hunan heart endures. 
If any man had done as much for me 

Two scores of years back — Hillo, here's another ! 
A woman? Let me beg your pardon, madam, 

How cold your hands are ! Doubtless she's the 
mother, 
And no such daughter of perverted Adam 

As first I thought her ! 



That's a zither ring- 
That slides so loose along her shrunken finger ; 

And here's the zither. Where's the song to sing, 
On such a night, to such a bankrupt singer? 

Look up, my girl ! Her face is cold as stone ; 

Ay, colder than the stone she sleeps upon. 
What! Lucy? Lucy! Can you hear me call? 

There is a God in heaven, after all ! 




The Poetry Of Flowers. 

BY CASIMIR. 

Child of the Spring, thou charming flower 

No longer in confinement He, 
Arise to light, thy form discover, 

Rival the azure of the sky. 

The rains are gone, the storms are o'er: 
Winter retires to make thee way ; 



POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

Come, then, thou sweetly blooming flower, 
Come, lovely stranger, come away. 

The sun is dress'd in beaming smiles, 
To give thy beauties to the day ; 

Young zephyrs wait with gentlest gales, 
To fan thy bosom as they play. 



THE QUEEN OF THE GARDEN. 

BY MOORE 

If Jove would give the leafy bowers 
A queen for all their world of flowers, 
The Rose would be the choice of Jove, 
And reign the queen of every grove. 
Sweetest child of weeping morning, 
Gem, the vest of earth adorning, 
Eye of flowerets, glow of lawns, 
Bud of beauty, nursed by dawns ; 
Soft the soul of love it breathes ; 
Cypria's brow with magic wreathes ; 
And to the zephyr's warm caresses 
Diffuses all its verdant tresses, 
Till, glowing with the wanton's play, 
It blushes a diviner ray I 



THE COWSLIP. 

Unfolding to the breeze of May, 
The Cowslip greets the vernal ray ; 
The topaz and the ruby gem, 
Her blossom's simple diadem ; 
And, as the dewdrops gently fall, 
They tip with pearls her coronal. 
In princely halls and courts of kings 
Its lustrous ray the diamond flings ; 



26 

POETRY OP FLOWERS. 

Yet few of those who see its beam, 
Amid the torchlight's dazzling gleam, 
As bright as though a meteor shone, 
Can call the costly prize their own. 
But gems of ever}' form and hue 
Are glittering here in morning dew; 
Jewels that all alike may sharo 
As freely as the common air ; 
No niggard hand, or jealous cj r e, 
Protects them from the passer by. 
Man to his brother shuts his heart, 
And Science acts a miser's part; 
But Nature, with a liberal hand, 
Flings wide her stores o'er sea and land. 
If gold she gives, not single grains 
Are scatter'd far across the plains ; 
But lo ! the desert streams are roll'd 
O'er precious beds of virgin gold. 
If flowers she offers, wreaths are given, 
As countless as the stars of heaven ; 
Or music — 'tis no feeble note 
She bids along the valleys float; 
Ten thousand nameless melodies 
In one full chorus swell the breeze. 
Oh! Art is but a scanty rill 
That genial seasons scarcely fill ; 
But Nature needs no tide's return 
To fill afresh her Mowing urn ; 
She gathers all her rich supplies 
Where never-failing waters rise. 



TO THE ROUND-LEAFED SUNDEW. 

By the lone fountain's secret bed, 
Where human footsteps rarely tread, 
'Mid the wild mooi of silent glen, 
The Sundew blooms unseen by men ; 



POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

Spreads there her leaf of rosy hue, 

A chalice for the morning dew, • 

And, ere the summer's sun can rise, 

Drinks the pure waters of the skies. 

"Wouldst thou that thy lot were given 

Thus to receive the dews of heaven, 

"With heart prepared, like this meek flower? 

Come, then, and hail the dawning hour; 

So shall a blessing from on high, 

Pure as the rain of summer's sky. 

Unsullied as the morning dew, 

Descend, and all thy soul imbue. 

Yes ! like the blossoms of the waste 

Would we the sky-born waters taste, 

To the High Fountain's sacred spring 

The chalice let us humbly bring; 

So shall we find the streams of heaven 

To him who seeks are freely given ; * 

The morning and the evening dew 

Shall still our failing strength renew. 



A CYPRESS LEAF. 

FOR THE GRAVE OF A DEAR ONE. 

The feelings I have felt have died away, 

The love that was my lamp death's dews have quench'd; 
The faith which, through life's ills, ne'er knew decay, 

Hath in the ehill showers of the grave been drench 'd* 
The hopes that buoyed my spirit 'mid the spray 

Of life s wild ocean, one by one are wrench'd — 
Cruelly wrench'd away — and I am now 
A solitary leaf on a rent bough ! 

The link that knit me to mankind is snapped — 

Briefly it bound me to a callous world ; 
The fortress of my comfort hath been sapp'd — 

Where are Joy's banners lightsomely unfurled, 



28 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

That graced the battlements? In vapor wrapped 
Tn the dense smoke of stifled breath upcurl'd, 
They drop in tatters — forming now a pail 
For the sad mummy-heart that drips with gall. 

I have not now of broken troth to wail, 

I have not now to speak of friendship broken; 

Of Death and Death's wild triumphs is my tale — 
Of friendship faithful and of love's last token, 

A ring — whose holy motto ne'er shall fail 

To 'rouse such sorrow as may ne'er be spoken 

That pictured Dove and Branch — those words, l La PaixP 

(Oh, direful mockery!) wear my heart away! 

Peace — peace ! alas, there is no peace for me, 
It rests with thee, beloved one, in the grave ! 

Yet when I search the cells of Memory, 
Where silently the subterranean wave 

Of buried hope glides on, a thought of thee — 
Like sunshine on the hermit's darkened cave — 

Steals gently o'er my spirit, whispering sweet 

Of realms beyond the tomb, where we shall meet I 

Our love — how did it spring? In sooth it grew 

Even as some rare exotic in a clime 
Unfriendly to its growth; yet rich in hue, 

Voluptuous in fragrance, as if Time 
Had been to it all sunlight and soft dew — 

As if upon its freshness the cold rime 
Of death should never fall! How came it then? 
Even as the manna fell 'midst famish'd men. 

To be snatch'd up in transport! And we fed 
Upon affection's banquet, that ne'er pall'd 

Upon the spirit's palate! Friendship shed 
A light around our bosoms which recall'd 

The memory of that bard, whose soul was wed 
With love surpassing woman's love, ungaird 

By selfish doubts — to him, the monarch's son, 

Brave Jonathan ! Like their's, our souls were one. 



2d 

POETRY OF ¥ LO WE ItS. 

Oh. long we loved in silence 1 Neither spake 

Of that which work'd the thoughtful mine within — * 
hou didst not guess that, sleeping or awake, 
My thoughts wore full of t-hce till thought grew sin; 

For it is sin of earthly things to make 
Our idols ! and T never hoped to win 

Thy coveted affection ; but for me, 

Thy heart was also yearning silently! 

I was the first to speak — and words there were, 
Wild words, that painted fond affection's course—* 

Oh, what indeed will erring tongues not dare, 

When conquering Feeling prompts ! Like winds that force 

From wind-harps mystic sounds, the lips declare, 
Thoughts that are often follow'd by remorse; 

For passion hath a potency that breaks 

Each puny bulwark callous Reason makes ! 

But ours was Friendship's purest w r orship — pure, 

Altho' that worship bowed at earthly shrines, 
Alas ! that hearts on altars insecure 

Should sacrifice their all of bliss ! There twines 
O'er mankind's sweetest hopes corruption sure, 

To blast their beauty e'en whilst most it shines— » 
? Tis but to teach us there are w r orlds above, 
Where Hope fruition finds in endless Love! 



THK JASMINE. 

BY MOORE. 

'Twas midnight — through the lattice wreath ? d 

With woodbine, many a perfume breathed 

From plants that wake when others sleep'; 

From timid jasmine buds that keep 

Their odor to themselves all day ; 

But when the sunlight dies away, 

Let the delicious secret out 

To every breeze that roams about. 



POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

TO PRIMROSES. 

FILLED WITH MORNING DEW 
BY DERRICK. 

Why do ye weep, sweet babes ? Can tears 
Speak grief in you, 
Who were but born 
Just as the modest morn 
TecnVd her refreshing dew ! 
Alas ! ye have not known that shower 
That mars a Mower ; 
Nor felt the unkind 
Breath of a blasting wind ; 
Nor are ye worn with years ; 
Or warp'd as we, 
Who think it strange to see 
Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, 
Speaking by tears before ye have a tongue. 

Speak, whimpering younglings, an<2 make known 
The reason why 
Ye droop and weep. 
Is it for want of sleep, 
Or childish lullaby ? 
Or that ye have not seen a3 yet 
The violet ? 

Or brought a kiss 
From that sweetheart to this! 
No — no, this sorrow shown 
By your tears shed, 
Would have this lecture read ; 
That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, 
Conceived with grief are, and with toars brought forth. 



31 

THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

SNOWDROPS. 



Out from the frozen earth, 
Through frost and clinging rime. 

Say who has called ye forth 
At your appointed time? 



All other flow'rs lie still, 
Green leaves are hid away 

Ye have some place to fill, 
Some lesson to convey. 



When chill December's tears 
Fell fast on withered leaves, 

I marked your slender spears, 
Beneath the cottage eaves. 



Then fell the drifting snow, 
And stormy winds arose — 

Ye were too meek and low 
To fear such mighty foes. 



And ev'ry long dark night, 
Each (lay's brief bitter hours, 

Have helped to mould aright 
Your fragile, pearly flow'rs 



So shall each hour of pain, 
Each cross we have to bear, 



32 

THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 



Make pure and free from stain 
The robes our souls must wear. 



So shall the lowliest life 
That does our Father's will 

Be sheltered through the strife, 
Its mission to fulfill. 



THE FURZE. 



'Mid scattered foliage, pale and sere, 
Thy kind floweret cheers the gloom 

And offer to the waning year 
The tribute of its erolden bloom. 



Beneath November's clouded sky, 
In chill December's stormy hours, 

Thy blossom meets the traveler's eye, 
Gay as the buds of summer bowers. 



Flower of the dark and wintry day ! 

Emblem of friendship ! thee I hail ! 
Blooming when others fade away, 

And brightest when the hues grow pale. 



33 

THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

THE LILY. 

J . H. WIFFEN . 



Look on that flower — the daughter of the vale 
The Medicean statue of the shade ! 

Her limbs of modest beauty, aspect pale, 
Are but by her ambrosial breath betray'd 
There, half in elegant relief displayed, 

She standeth to our gaze, half -shrinking shuns ; 
Folding her green scarf like a bashful maid 

Around, to screen her from her suitor suns, 
Not all her many sweets she lavisheth at once. 



Lock'd in the twilight of depending boughs. 

Where night and day commingle, she doth shoot, 
Where nightingales repeat their marriage vows ; 

First by retiring, wins our curious foot, 
Then charms us by her loveliness to suit 

Our contemplation to her lovely lot ; 
Her gloom, leaf, blossom, fragrance form dispute 

Which shall attract most belgards to the spot, 
And loveliest he array who fain would rest unsought 



Her gloom, the aisle of heavenly solitude ; 

Her flower, the vestal nun who there abideth ; 
Rer breath, that of celestials meekly woo'd 

From heaven; her leaf, the holy veil which hideth; 
Her form, the shrine where purity resideth ; 

Spring's darling, nature's pride, and sylvan's queen — 
To her at eve enamour'd Zephyr glideth, 

Trembling, she bids him wait aside her screen 

And to his kisses wakes — the Flora of the scene. 



Si 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

NIGHT-BLOOMING FLOWERS, 

BY JULIET II. LEWIS. 

Fair buds ! I've wander'd day by day 

To this scquesterd spot, 
That I might catch your earliest smiles, 

And yet, you open not. 
The morning mists are scattered now, 

No cloud is in the sky, 
The sun, like a benignant king, 

Smiles from his throne on high ; 
While birds, in gushing melody, 

Are offering homage up ; 
And sister flowers, beneath hfs gaze, 

Ope wide each fragile cup. 
Why shut you then your incense in, 

And hide your loveliness, 
As though no one might share your joy 

Beneath the sun's caress ? 

Now wake you, 'tis the sunset hour, 

The day-king has gone down; 
Yet still, above the mountain's top, 

Is seen his brilliant crown ; 
Awake you! if his gleaming gems, 

His bands of glittering gold, 
His glorious, life-like radiance 

Departing, you'd behold. 
The river's touch'd with glowing light, 

And rolls, a crimson flood; 
While heaven's blush has lent its hues 

Unto the leafy wood. 
Still, are you folded to your dreams? 

Bright must the visions be, 
If they surpass the gorgeousness 

Of evening's pageantry ! 



35 

POETRY OV FLOWERS. 

Good-night! the stars are gemming heaven, 

And seem like angel's eyes, 
Resuming now their silent watch 

Within the far-off skies; 
They nightly on their burning thrones 

L'iKe guardian spirits, keep 
Familiar vigil o'er the world, 

Wrapt in its solemn sleep; 
Those children of the air, 
And tenderly they gaze on us, 
Whil° every ray they send to us 

Some message seems to bear, 
That stirs us to the inmost core ; 

And we do thrill beneath their beams, 
And start, and tremble, wildly, like 

Ambition in his dreams. 

Now, lo! you burst your emerald bonds 

And ope your languid eyes, 
And spread your loveliness before 

Those dwellers of the skies; 
While incense, from your grateful hearts, 

Like prayer ascends to heaven ; 
And kindly dew, and starry light, 

Are answering blessings given. 
a Ask and ye shall receive," you seem 

To whisper to my heart, 
And move me in ynir worshipping 

To take an active ^.rt. 
Sweet teachers ! 'tis an ht^xr ior prayer, 

When hush'd are sounds of mirth, 
And slumber rests his balmy wing 

Upon the weary earth ; 
When all the tics that bind the soul 

To worldliness, are riven — 
Then heart- felt prayers, like loosen'd birds 

Will wing their way to heaven. 



36 

POETRY OP FLOWERS. 

THE FRAGRANT AIR FLOWER. 

BY T. K. HERVEY. 

Men say there is a gentle flower, 

That, born beneath an eastern sky r 
Without the gift of sun or shower, 

Gives Out its precious sigh, 
That— with affection — sweetly dwells 

Beneath the Indian's stately dome 
Or freely throws its fragrant spells 

Around his lowly home — 
Fed only by that sacred air 
That, as a spirit, hovers there. 

And thou art like that fairy thing, 

Though gifted with a colder sky. 
With scent and bloom, too pure to fling 

Before the passer by; 
Who, with the star flowers of thine eyes T 

CouLdst brighten still the brightest lot, 
Or, with thy fond and fragrant sighs, 

Make rich the poor man's cot — 
An Knglish Ruth— in good or ill, 

To follow wheresoe'cr we roam, 
And hang thy precious garland 3, still, 

Amid the breath of home ! 

My weary heart — my weary heart I 

It is a pleasant tiling 
To wander from the crowd apart, 
When faint, and chill'd, and cold thou art, 

And fold thy restless wing. 
Beside the sweet and quiet streams 

Where grow life's lily-bells — 
And peace— that feeds on happy dreams 

And utters mvsic— dwells — 
And love, beside the gushing springs, 
Like some young Naiad, sits and sings. 



37 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

To leave awhile the barren bight, 

Where thou, too long, hast striven 
As if the spirit's upward flight 

Had been the path to heaven ! 
And musing by love's haunted rill, 

Earth's " river of the blest," 
To see how sweetly heaven still, 

Is mirror'd on its breast, 
And feel thou, there art nearer far 
To that bright land of sun and star! 

THE ALPINE FLOWERS. 

BY AIRS. SJGOURNEY. 

Meek dwellers 'mid yon terror-stricken cliffs ; 
With brows so pure, and incense-breathing lips, 
Whence are ye ? Did some wlii to- winged messenger 
On Mercy's mission trust your timid germ 
To the cold cradle of eternal snows ? 
Or, breathing on the callous icicles, 
Bid them with tear-drops nurse ye? 

— Tree nor shrub 
Dare that drear atmosphere; no polar pine 
Uproars a veteran front ; yet there ye stand, 
Leaning your checks against the thick-ribb'd ice, 
And looking up with brilliant eyes to Him 
Who bids you bloom unhlanch'd amid the waste 
Of desolation. Man, who, panting, toils 
O'er slippery steeps, or, trembling, treads the verge 
Of yawning gulfs, o'er which the headlong plunge 
Is to eternity, looks shuddering up, 
And mark3ye in 3'our placid loveliness — 
Fearless, yet frail — and, clashing his chill hands, 
Blesses your pencill'd beauty. 'Mid the pomp 
Of mountain summits rushing on the sky, 
And chaining the rapt soul with breathless awe, 
He bows to bind you drooping to his breast, 



38 

i 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

Inhales your spirit from the frost-wing'd gale, 
And freer, dreams of heaven. 



THE MISTLETOE. 

BY BARRY CORNWALL. 

"When winter nights grow long, 
And winds without blow cold, 
We sit in a ring 'round the warm wood fire, 

And listen to stories old ! 
And we try to look grave (as maids should be,) 
When the men bring in boughs of the laurel tree 
Oh, the Laurel, the evergreen tree! 
The poets have laurels — and why not we ? 

How pleasant, when night falls down, 

And hides the wintry sun, 
To sca them come in to the blazing fire, 

And know that their work .is done; 
While many bring in with a laugh and rhyme, 
Green branches of holly for Christmas time 1 
Oh, the Holly, the bright green Holly, 
It tells (like a tongue) that the times are jolly. 

Sometimes — in our grave house, 
Observe, this happeneth not ; 
But, at times, the evergreen Laurel boughs 

And the Holly are all forgot i 
And then ! what then ? why, the men laugh low, 
And hang up a branch of — the Mistletoe ! 

Oh, brave is the laurel ! and brave is the Holly I 
But the Mistletoe banisheth melancholy] 
Ah, nobody knows, nor ever shall know 
What is done under the Mistletoe J 



39 

POETRY OP FLOWERS. 

TO THE SNOW-DROP. 

BY BARRY CORNWALL. 

Pretty firstling o f the year! 

Herald of the host of flowers, 
Hast thou left my cavern drear, 

In the hope of summer hours ? 

Back unto my carthern bowers ! 
Back to thy warm world below, 

Till the strength of suns and showers 
Quell the now relentless snow! 

Art still here — alive, and blithe? 

Though the stormy night hath fled, 
And the fro3t hath pass'd his scythe 

O'er thy small, unshcltcr'd head; 

Ah! some lie amid the dead, 
(Many a giant stubborn tree — 

Many a plant its spirits shed,) 
That were better nursed than thee. 

What hath saved thco? Thou wast not 
'Gainst the arrowy winter furrd — 

Arm'd in scale — but all forgot 

When the frozen winds werestirrd, 
Nature, who doth clothe the bird, 

Should have hid thee in the earth, 
Till the cuckoo's song was heard, 

And the Spring let loose her mirth. 

Nature — deep and mystic word, 

Mighty mother, stdl unknown! 
Thou didst sure the Snow-drop gird 

With an armor all thine own! 

Thou, who scnt'st it forth alone 
To the cold and sullen season, 

(Like a thought at random thrown,) 
Sent it thus for some grave reason 1 



40 

POETRY OF FLOW EltS. 

If 'twere but to pierce the raind 

With a single gentle thought, 
Who shall deem thee harsh or blind? 

Who that thou hast vainly wrought? 

Hoard the gentle virtue caught 
Prom the Snow-drop — reader wise ! 

Good is good, wherever taught, 
On the ground or in the skies ! 



TO THE JESSAMINE. 

BY MISS JANE TAYLOR. 

Sweet jessamine, long ma} r thy elegant flower 

Breathe fragrance and solace for me ; 
And long thy green sprigs overshadow the bower 

Devoted to friendship and thee. 

The eye that was dazzled where lilies and roses 

Their brilliant assemblage display'd. 
With grateful delight on tb} r verdure reposes, 

A tranquil and delicate shade. 

But all ! what dejection that foliage expresses, 
Which pensively droops on her breast! 

The dew of the evening has laden her tresses, 
And stands like a tear on her crest. 

Til watch by thy side through the gloom of the night 

Impatient till morning appears : 
No charm can awaken this heart to delight, 

My jessamine, while thou art in tears. 

But soon will the shadows of night be withdrawn 

Which ever in mercy are given; 
And thou shalt be eheer'd by the light of the morn, 

And lauii'd by the breezes of heaven. 



5 



41 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

And still may thy tranquil and delicate shade 

Yield fragrance and solace to me ; 
For though all the flowers in my garden should fade, 

My heart will repose upon thee 



THE LILY AND THE ROSE. 

BY COWPER. 

The nymph must lose her female friend 
If more admired than she — 

But where will fierce contention end, 
If flowers can disagree ? 

Within the garden's peaceful scene 

Appeared two lovely foes, 
Aspiring to the rank of queen, 

The Lily and the Rose. 

The Rose soon redden'd into rage, 

And swelling with disdain, 
Appeal'd to many a poet's page 

To prove her right to reign. 

The Lily's hight bespoke command, 

A fair imperial flower; 
She seenvd design'd for Flora's hand, 

The sceptre of her power. 

This civil bickering and debate 
The goddess chanced to hear; 

And flew to save, ere yet too late, 
The pride of the parterre. 

u Yours is," she said, " the noblest hue, 
And yours the statelier mein ; 

And, till a third surpasses you, 
Let each be deenrd a queen." 



42 

. POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

Thus soothed and reconciled, both seek 

The fairest British fair; 
The seat of empire is her cheek, 

They reign united there. 

THE NIGHT-SHADE 

BY BARRY CORNWALL. 

Tread aside from my starry bloom I 
I am the nurse whe feed the tomb 

(The tomb, my child) 

"With dainties piled, 
Until it grows strong as a tempest wild. 

Trample not on a virgin flower ! 

I am the maid of the midnight hour; 

I bear sweet sleep 

To those who weep. 
And lie on their eyelids dark and deep. 

Tread not thou on my snaky eyes ! 
I am the worm that the weary prrze, 

The Nile's soft asp, 

That they strive to grasp, 
And one that a queen has loved to clasp I 

Pity me ! I am she whom man 

Hath hated since ever the world began; 

I soothe his brain, 

In the night of pain, 
But at morning he waketh — and all is vain. 



THE ORANGE-BOUGH. 

BY MRS. HEMAXS. 

Oh ! bring me one sweet Orange-bough, 
To fan my cheek, to cool my brow; 



43 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

One bough, with pearly blossoms ores!* 
And bind it, mother, on my breast ? 

Go seek the grove along the shore, 
Whose odo r « T must b-e&the no more, 
The grove where every seated tree 
Thrills to the deep voice of the se# 

Oh ! Love's fond sighs, and fervent prayer 
And wild farewell, are Vmgerin^r there, 
Each leafs light whisper hath n tone. 
My faint heart, even in death, would own. 

Then bear me thence one bbiign, to sned 
Life's parting sweetness r rCii\u\ my head. 

And bind it. mother, on my breast, 
When I am laid in lone';' rest. 

THE HAREBELL. 



"For me" — -she stoop'd, and looking 'ronnd* 

Piuck'cl a blue H are bell from the grouch — 

" For me, whose memory scarce convex 

An image of more splendid days 

This little flower, mar. love* me lea, 

May well my s-mple emblem be: 

It drinks heaven's dew, blithe as the Rose 

That in the king's own garden grows; 

And when I place it in my hair, 

Allan, a bard is bound to swear 

He ne'er saw coronet so fair." 



SWEET LAVENDER. 

BY MISS STRICKLAND. 

Sweet Lavender ! T love thy flower 
Of meek and modest blue, 



41 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

Which meets the morn and evening hour, 
The storm, the sunshine and the shower, 
And changeth not its hue. 

li cottage-maid's parterre thou'rt seen, 

In simple, touching grace; 
And in tiie garden of the queen, 
'Midst costly plants and blossoms sheen, 

Thou also hast a place. 

The Rose, with bright and peerless bloom, 
. Attracted many eyes ; 
Bui while her glories and perfume 
Expire before brief summer's doom, 
Thy fragrance never dies, 

Thou art not like the fickle train 

Our adverse fates estrange; 
Who, in the day of grief and pain, 
Are found deceitful, light and vain, 

For thou dost never change. 

But thou art emblem of the Jiriend, 

Who, whatsoe'er our lot, 
The balm of faithful love will lend 
And, true and constant to the end, 

May die, but alters not. 



THE HALF-BLOWN KOSE. 

BY DANIEL. 

Look, now, how we esteem the half-blown rose 
The image of thy blush and summers honor ; 

Whilst yet her tender bud doth undisclose 
That full of beauty time bestows upon her. 

No sooner spreads her glories to the air, 

But straight her wide-blown pomp comes to decline j 

She then is scorn 1 d that late adorn'd the fair; 



47 

POETRY OP FLOWERS. 

THE HOLLY. 

Oh, reader ! hast thou ever stood to see 

The Holly tree? 
The eye that contemplates it well perceives 

Its glossy leaves 
Ordered by an Intelligence so wise, 
As might confound the Atheist's sophistries. 

Below a circling fence, its leaves are seen 

Wrinkled and keen ; 
No grazing cattle through their prickly round 

Can reach to wound, 
But as they grow where nothing is to fear, 
Smooth and unarmed the pointless leaves appear. 

HEART'S-EASE. 

BY SHAKESPEARE. 

I SAW, 

Flying between the cold moon and the earth, 

Cupid all arm'd ; a certain aim he took 

At a fair vestal throned in the west. 

And loosed his love-shaft smartly from his bow, 

As it should pierce a hundred thousand hearts. 

But I might see young Cupid's fiery shaft 

Quench'd in the chaste beams of the wat'ry moon. 

And the imperial vot'ress passed on, 

In maiden meditation, fancy-free. 

Yet marked I where the bolt of Cupid fell; 

It fell upon a little western flower. 

Before milk-white, now purple with love's wound, 

And maidens call it Love in Idleness. 

The juice of it. on sleeping eyelids laid, 

Will make a man or woman madly dote 

-Upon tfie next live creature that it sees. 



48 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

THE SCARLET GERANIUM. 

I will not sing the mossy rose 
The jasmine sweet, or lily fair, 

The tints the rich carnation shows, 

The stock's sweet scent that fills the air. 

Full many a bard has sung their praise 
In metres smooth, and polished line; 

A simple flower and humbler lays 
May best befit a pen like mine. 

There is a small but lovely flower, 
With crimson star and calyx brown, 

On pathway side, beneath the bower, 
By Nature's hand profusely strown. 

Inquire you when this floweret springs ? 

When Nature wakes to mirth and love, 
When all her fragrance summer flings, 

When latest autumn chills the grove. 

Like the sweet bird whose name it bears, 
'Midst falling leaves and fading flowers, 
e passing traveler it cheers, 
In shorten'd days and darksome hours. 

And should you ask me where it blows 
I answer, on the mountains bare, 

High on the tu f ted rock it grows, 
In lonely glens or meadows fair. 

It blooms amidst those flowery dales 
Where winding Aire pursues its course, 

It smiles upon the craggy fells 
That rise around its lofty source. 

There are its rosy petals shown, 

'Midst curious forms and mosses rare, 

Imbedded in the dark grey stone, 
When not another flower is there. 



45 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

So fade the roses of those cheeks of thine. 
Ho April can revive thy wither'd iiowers, 

Whose springing- grace adorns thy glory now; 
Swift, speedy time, fcatlier'd with Hying hours, 

Dissolves the beauty of the fairest brow; 
Then do not thon such treasures waste in vain. 
But love now whilst thou mayst bo loved agair. 



TO A CROCUS. 

BY BERNARD BARTON. 

Welcome, wild harbinger of spring ! 

To this sr/.all nook of earth ; 
Peeling and fancy fondly cling 

'Round thoughts which owe their birth* 
To thee, and to the humble spot 
"Where chance has flx'd thy lowly lot. 

To thee — for thy rich golden bloom, 
Like heaven's fair bow on high, 

Portends, amid surrounding gloom, 
That brighter bonis draw nigh, 

When blossoms of moie varied dyes 

Shall ope their tints to warmer skies. 

Yet not the lily, nor the rose, 

Though fairer far they be, 
Can more delightful thoughts disclose 

Than I derive from thee; 
The eye their beauty may prefer ; 
The heart is thy interpreter! 

Methinks in tlry fair flower is seen, 
By those whose fancies roam, 

An emblem of that leaf of green 
The faithful dove brought home, 

When o'er the world of waters dark 

Were driven the inmates of the ark. 



50 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

"Where Time on sorrow's page of gloom 

Has fix'd its envious lot, 
-Or swept the record from the tomb, 

It says, Forget-me-not. 

And this is still the loveliest flower, 

The fairest of the fair, 
Of all that deck my lady's bower, 

Or bind her floating hair. 



FIELD LEAVES. 

BY ELIZABETH OAK SMITH. 

The tender violets bent in smiles 
To the elves that sported nigh, 

Tossing the drops of fragrant dew 
To scent the evening sky. 

They kiss'd the rose in love and mirth, 

And its petals fairer grew 
A shower of pearly dust they brought 

And over the lily threw. 

1 saw one dainty creature crown 

The tulip's painted cup, 
And bless with one soft kiss the urn, 

Then fold its petals up. 

A finger rock'd the young bird's nest, 

As high on a branch it hung, 
While the gleaming night dew rattled down 

Where the old dry leaf was flung. 

SON THE INDIAN-JASMINE FLOWER. 

BY RYAN r . 

How lovelily the jasmine flower 

Blooms far from man's observing eyes*, 



51 



POETRY OF FLOWfcltS. 

And having lived its little hour, 

There withers — there sequcster'd die&P 

Though faded, vet 'lis not forgot ; 

A rich perfume, time cannot sever, 
Lingers in that unfriended spot. 

And decks the jasmine's grave forever:. 

Tims — thus should man, who seeks to soar* 
On learning's wings to fame's bright skj^ 

"F&i iVom his fellows seek that lore, 
Unheeded live, sequester 1 d die. 

Tims, like the jasmine, when he's fled, 
Fame's rich perfume will ever keep, 

Ling'ring around the faded dead, 

As saints thai watch some infant T s sleetrv. 



TO AN EARLY PRIMROSE. 

BY H. K. WHITE. 

Milb offspring of a dark and sullen siret 
"Whose modest form, so delicately fine, 

Was nursed in whirling storms, 

4 >i cradled in the wind. 

Thee, when young Spring first questioned Winter's 

sway, 
And dared the sturdy blusterer to the fight — 

Thee on this hank he threw, 

To mark his victor}'-. 

sii this low vale, the promise of the year,, 
Serene thou openest to the nipping gale f 

Unnoticed and alone, 

Thy tender elegance. 



52 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

So virtue blooms, brought forth amid the .storms 
Of chill adversity, in some lone walk 

Of life she rears her head, 

Obscure and unobserved 

While every bleaching breeze that on her blows, 
-Chastens her spotless purity of breast, 

And hardens her to bear 

Serene the ills of life. 



THE ROSE BVV. 



'When nature tries her finest touch, 
Weaving her vernal wreath. 

Mark ye how close she veils her 'round. 

Not to be traced by sight or souad, 
Nor soil'd by ruder breath V 

Whoever saw the earliest rose 
First open her sweet breast? 
Or, when the summer sun goes down, 
The first, soft star in evening's crown 
Light up her gleaming crest? 

Fondly we seek the dawning bloom 
On features wan and fair — 

The gazing eye no change can trace, 

But look away a little space, 
Then turn, and lo ! 'tis there. 

But there's a sweeter flower than c'ef 

BluslTd on the rosy spray — 
A brighter star, a richer bloom, 
Than e'er did western heaven illume 
At close of summer day. 



53 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

Tis love, the last best gift of heaven; 

Love gentle, holy, pure ; 
But, tenderer than a dove's soft eye- 
The searching sun, the open sky, 

She never could endure. 

Kven human love will shrink from sight 

Here in the coarse rude earth ; 
Jow, then, should rash, intruding glance, 
Break in upon her sacred trance 

Who boasts a heavenly birth ? 

So still and secret is her growth, 

Ever the truest heart, 
Where deepest strikes her kindly root 
For hope or joy, for flower or fruit, 

Least known its happy part. 

God only, and good angels, look 

Behird the blissful screen — 
As when, triumphant o'er his woes, 
The »Son of God, by moonlight 'rose, 

By all but heaven unseen. 

As when the Holy Maid beheld 

Her risen Son and Lord; 
Thought has not colors half so fair 
That she to paint that hour may dare. 

In silence best adored. 

The gracious dove, that brought from heaven 

The earnest of our bliss, 
Of many a chosen witness telling, 
On many a happy vision dwelling, 

Sings not a note of this. 

So, truest image of Mie Christ, 

Old Israel's long-iost Son, 
What time, with sweet forgiving cheer, 
He cali" d his conscious brethren near, 

Would weep with them alone. 



54 

POETRY or flowers. 

He could not trust his inciting soul 

But iu his Maker's sight— 
Then why should gentle hearts and true 
Bare to the rude world's withering view 

Their treasures of delight ? 

No — let the dainty rose awhile 

Her bashful fragrance hide — 
Rend not her silken veil too soon, 
But leave her, in her own soft noon, 
To flourish and abide. 



THE FIELD-FLOWER. 

BY MONTGOMERY. 

There is a flower, a little flower, 
With silver crest and golden eye, 

That welcomes every changing hour, 
And weathers every sky. 

The prouder beauties of the field 
In gay but quick succession shine, 

Race after race their honors yield, 
They flourish and decline. 

But this small flower, to nature dear, 

While moon and stars their courses rim, 

Wreathes the whole circle of the year, 
Companion of the sun. 

It smiles upon the lap of May, 

To sultry August spreads its charms, 

Lights pale October on his way, 
And twines December's arms. 

The purple heath, and golden broom, 
On moory mountains catch the gale, 

O'er lawns the lily sheds perfume. 
The violet in the vale; 



55 

POETRY OP FLOWERS. 

But this bold floweret climbs the hill. 
Hides in the forest, haunts the glen, 

Stays on the margin of the rill, 
Peeps 'round the fox's den. 

Within the garden's cultured 'round 

It shares the sweet carnation's bed ; 
And blooms in consecrated ground 
In honor of the dead. 

The lambkin crops its crimson gem, 
The wild-bee murmurs on its breast 

The blue-fly bends its pensile stem, 
Light o'er the skylark's nest. 

^Tis Flora's page — in every place, 
In every season, fresh and fair, 

It opens with perennial grace, 
And blossoms every where. 

On waste and woodland, rock and plant 
Its humble buds unheeded rise : 

The rose has but a summer reign, 
The daisy never dies. 



COWSLIPS. 

BY MARY HO WITT. 

Nay, tell me not of Austral flowers, 
Or purple bells from Persia's bowers, 
The cowslip of this land of ours, 

Is dearer far to me ! 
This flower in other years I knew! 
I know the field wherein it grew, 
Willi violets white and violets blue, 

Beneath the garden tree. 

I never see those flowers but they 
Send back my memory, far away, 



56 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

To years long past, and many a day 

Else pensh'd long, ago! 
They bring my childhood's years agaia— 
Our garden fence, I see it plain, 
With ricaries like a golden rain 

Shower' d on the earth below. 

A happy child, I leap, I run, 

And memories come back, one by one, 

Like swallows with the summer sun, 

To their old haunts of joy ! 
A happy child, once more I stand, 
With my kind sister, hand in hand, 
And hear those tones, so sweet, so bland, 

That never brought annoy 1 

I hear again my mother's wheel, 

Her hand upon my head I feel; 

Her kiss, which every grief could heal, 

Is on my cheek e'en now ; 
I see the dial overhead ; 
I see the porch o'er which was led, 
The pyracantha green and red, 

And jessamine's slender bough. 

I see the garden-thicket's shade, 
Where all the summer long we play'd, 
And gardens set, and houses made, 

Our early work and late ; 
Our little gardens, side by side, 
Each border'd 'round with London pride 
Some six feet long, and three feet wide, 

To us a large estate ! 

The apple and the damson trees, 
The cottage shelter for our bees ; 
I see them — and beyond all these ; 

A something deafer still ; 
I see an eye serenely blue, 
A cheek of girlhood's freshest hud, 



57 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

A buoyant heart, a spirit true, 
Alike in good and ill. 

Sweet sister, thou wert all to me, 
And T sufficient friend f©r thee ; 
"Where was a happier twain than we* 

Who had no mate bes'de ? 
Like wayside flowers in merry May, 
Our pleasures 'round about us lay; 
A joyful morning had our day, 

Whate'er our eve betide ! 



HEART'S-EASE. 

BY MRS. SHERIDAN. 

In gardens oft a beauteous flower there grows, 

By vulgar eyes unnoticed and uTiseen ; 
In sweet "serenity it humbly blows, 

'And rears its purple head to deck the green. 

This flower, as nature's poet sweetly sings, 

Was once milk-white, and heart's-ease was its nam* 

Till wanton Cupid poised its roseate wings, 
A vestal's sacred bosom to inflame. 

With treacherous aim the god his arrow drew, 
Which she with icy coldness did repel ; 

Rebounding thence with feathery bpeed it flew, 
Till on this lonely flower, at last, it fell 

Heart's-ease no more the wandering shepherd found; 

No more the nymphs its snowy form possess ; 
Its white now changed to purple by love's wound, 

Heart's-ease no more— 'tis love-in-idleness. 



58 

POETRY OF FLOWERS. 

TO THE SWEET-BRIER. 

BY J. G. C. BRAINARD. 

Our sweet autumnal western-scented wind 
Robs of its odors none so sweet a flower, 

In all the blooming waste it left belli nd, 

As that sweet-brier y ields it ; and the shower 
Wets not a rose that buds in beauty's bower 

One half so lovely ; yet it grows along 

The poor girl's pathway; by the poor man's door. 

Such are the simple folks it dwells among ; 

And humble as the bud, so humble be the song. 

T love it, for it takes its untouch'd stand 
Not in the vase that sculptors decorate ; 

Its sweetness all is of my native land ; 
And e'en its fragrant leaf has not its mate 
Among the perfumes which the rich and great 

Bring from {Tie odors of the spicy East. 

You love your flowers and plants, and will you hate 

The little four-leaved rose that I love best 

That freshest will awake, and sweetest go to rest I 



THE ORCHIS. 

BY SNOW. 

See, Delia, see this image bright, 

Why starts my fair one -at the sight? 

It mounts not on offensive wing, 

Nor threats thy breast with angry sting; 

Admire, as close the insets lies. 

Its thin- wrought plume and honey'd thighs; 

Whilst on this floweret's velvet breast, 

It seems as though 'twere lull'd to rest. 

Nor might its fairy wings unfold, 

Knchain'd in aromatic gold. 



59 

POETRY OP FLOWERS. 

!£hh>k not to set the captive frea. 
Ti8 but the picture of a bee, 

Tel wonder not that nature's powfc", 
Should paint an insect in a flower. 
And stoop to means that bear it', v^t<.. 
Besemblance to imperfect art. 
Nature, who could that form inspif?. 
With strength and swiftness, life and firs* 
And bid it search eacli spicy v.?!\ 
Where Mowers their fragrant souls ezh&&£ 
Ar.d laboring for the parent hivet, 
With murmurs make the wild alive. 
For when in Parian stone we trs«© 
Some best rtcnember'd form orfaoa; 

Or see on radiant canvas rise 
An imitative paradise ; 
And feel the warm affections gfaw, 
P?3ased ?t the pencil's mimic show; 
*Tis but obedience to -the plan 
5Vom nature's birth opposed to mail, 
Who, lest her choicest sweets in* ^aiia 
Should blossom for our thankless t38U%' t 
Lest beauty pass unheeded by, 
Like cloud upon the summer sky ; 
Lest memory of the brave and just. 
Should sleep with them confined to d%&; 
With leading hand the expedient pro\ 7 ^. 
And paints for us the form she loves. 



TO THE PASSION-FLOWEB, 

BY BERNARD BARTON. 

If Superstition's baneful art 
First gave thy mystic name, 

Eeason, I trust, would steel my heart 
Against its groundless claim • 



60 

POETRY OF FLOWERS, 

But if, in fancy's pensive hour. 

By grateful feelings stirr'd, 
Her fond imaginative power 

That name at first conferr'd — 

Though lightly truth her nights may prize, 

By wild vagary driven, 
For once their blameless exercise 

May surely be forgiven. 

We roam the seas — give new-found isles 
Some king's or conqueror's name ) 

We rear on earth triumphant piles 
As meeds of earthly fame: — 

We soar to heaven ; and to outlive 

Our life's contracted span, 
Unto the glorious stars we give 

The names of mortal man : 

Then may not one poor floweret' J 

The holier memory share 
Of Him, who, to avert our doom, 

Vouchsafed our sins to bear ? 

God dwelleth not in temples rear'd 

By work of human hands, 
Yet shrines august, by men revered 

Are found in Christian lands. 

And may not e'en a simple flower 

Proclaim His glorious praise, 
Whose fiat, only, had the power 

Its form from earth to raise ? 

Then freely let thy blossom ope 

Its beauties — to recall 
A scene which bids the humble hope 

In Him who died for all! 



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34 Murphy & Morton's Kity Ann 

O'Brien. 

35 Foley k Sheffer's Oh, Oh, I'll 

meet You. 

36 A. Lewers' Sunset by the Sea 

37 J. W. Gibbon's Remember that 

the Boy to-day. etc. 

38 Sam Devere's Oh, Maria ! 

39 Harrigan & H Little Green 

Leaf in Our Bible. 

40 P.C. Foys emblems of Ireland 

41 J. o'Neil'sthe Night I learn'd 

to Swim. 

42 Aymer's Grotesque Clown. 

43 P. Rooney my daughter Julia. 

44 Kearney k Power Versatile 

Comedian. 

45 Bush's Patent Jew from New 

Jeruslum. 

46 Ackland von Boyles Pig-tail'd 

Chinaman. 

47 Harrigan k H. Mul. Gd Ch'd 

48 Delehanty & H. Sally Mckn'y 

49 Haverley's. Genuine Colored 

Georgia Minstrels. 

50 Konollmon's German Fun at 

Union Hill. 

51 Tudor's Funny Old Couple. 
5,* Old Wooden Rocker. 

53 H. Woodson's don't forget me 

Hannah. 

54 M'nch'st'r&J'nni'gsEcc'ntric 

55 Little Rosebud's I'm little but 
you bet that I can Dance. 



56 Hawiiin's< 

Ditcher . 

57 Oh! Demi 

58 J. Roach's 

Chicago. 

59 Mulvey & I 

60 Harrigan & 

Chrfstma 

61 Watson & E 

Splendid 

62 Campbell & 

Workingi«^™. 

63 Barry's grandmother's chair 

64 Ireland's Home Rule, or the 

Landlord must go. 

65 A Flower from my Angel 

Mother's Grave. 

66 Jubilee Camp-Meeting. 

67 Dockstader's T,Shovel. 

68 Flora Moore's from Ireland. 

69 Sheehan k J. Mrs. Driscoll's 

Party. 

70 L. Grant's tired of single life 

71 Harrigan AH. pitch'rof beer 

72 Bushs^nesockthepawnbr'k'r 

73 Arnold's Pillv's Request. 

74 B. Newccmb's Love Letters 

75 Gus Philips' Oofty Gooft. 

76 Harrigan k H. Mul. G'd Sur. 

77 PT. Barnum's Great Clown. 

78 M. Fisk's Female Celebrities 

79 Great Am. songjfc dance book 

80 Tony Pastor's French Flats. 

81 Hallen k Hart's Pinafore in 

fifteen minutes. 

82 D. Sands' Irish Jig, Clog and 

Dance Book. 

83 Amer. Four Phoebe Walker. 

84 Richmonds little 10 day bum 

85 Remington's Delia Clancy. 

86 Hines k B Dinah's Seren'de 

87 Johnson k C, Sunset in the 

South. 

88 Dayton's Old Age vs. Youth. 

89 Billy Barry's Budget of Fun 

90 The Emerald Four. 

91 Sheffer k S. Kick me Again, 

92 Radcliffe's Electric liver pad 




013 979 398 5 



. Banjo 
vy mule 
ilkenny 



ith'gt's 
letter 



125 Wst, Wst, Wst, 

126 Wesley B. long k short of it. 

127 Collyer's Nonsense and fun. 

128 Harrigan k Hart's Mulligan 
Silver Wedding. 

129 Diamond's miianese mmst'i. 

130 Pastor's Are you going larf 

131 Bennett Jk G. Funny capers. 

132 F. Bush's* Moses in Ireland. 

133 Rush's trip to Coney Island. 

134 Popular Opera Songster 

135 Woodson k Allen's carry me 
back to old Virginia. 

136 Metropolitan Favorites. r 

137 Johnny isyour father w'rki-g! 

138 Cronin k S. Tenement hous"J 
139McNish k Leland Sisters' 

Jolly Three. 

140 ooup's Monster olown. *~ 

141 Bruno's Rapid Transit. 

142 Nash's Barney the Guide. 

143 Weston Bros\ Conundrum. 

144 Happy Cal Wagner's mlnst'l 

145 Earnum and London Circus. 

146 Oh, Fred tell them to stop. 

147 M. Lee's Serio-comic Queen. 

148 Pat Rooney 'sMuldoon's new 
. Ulster Coat. 

149 Johnson k S. we're not crazy 
but insane. 

150 McAvoy k R. love in a letter 
bag. 

151 Osborn's at Long Branch. 

152 Leonard A J. Telegraph Lads 

153 Dr. Healy's Hibernian min't'l 

154 Winnett's latest and greatest 

155 Allen's house von de Rhine 



J. W. Gibbons' The Tramp. 156 Campbell's Strike while the 



94 Burgess' In the morning by 

the bright light. 

95 Roach's When McGumness 

gets a job. 
% Hi Henry's premium minst»l 

97 Hengler's new Merrv minst'l 

98 Barlow, Wilson, Primrose k 

West New Minstrel's. 

99 The Osborn's Irish Tourists. 

100 Fields k H. Music Conquer'd 

101 Harrigan Hart's Mm. Guard 

Picnic. Vol. 6. 

102 Rentz-Santley Noveltv. 

103 Charles Davis' Alvin Joslin. 

104 Scotch Lassie Jean. 

105 Eldridg's trunk tullof pTod's 

106 Murptiy & M Jones' Wood. 

107 P. Rooney 's when I take the 

President's Chair. 

108 Ferguson k M. self-made men 

109 Lawell k Drew's Muldoon's 

Boarding-House. 

110 C. Konollman's Lardvxlar. 

111 lister. A Allen's Ledger of 

Orignalities. 

112 Cradle's empty, baby's gone. 

113 Patterson's There never was 

a coward, kc. 

114 Bland's de golden wedding. 

115 Fielding's Tea Party. 

116 Harrigan k ff. Mul. G'd Norn 



Iron's hot. 

157 Murphy k Mack McCarthy's 

Party. 

158 Harrigan k Hart : s the major 

159 Hyde L B. Muldoon's Picnic 

160 Harris k Wood'sGrousmyers 

161 O'Neil's Gilhooly your coat 

is half-mast. 

162 Roberts' my only daughter 

Jane. 

163 American Four Hi Jenny Ho 

Jenny Johnson. . 

164 Jack Conroy's Tit-a-Ta. ^ , 

165 Lewis' A Tribute of Grief for 

our Nation's Chief. 

166 Dutch Mendels' Bewildered 

Dutchmen. 
l67*Sfiles* New Orleans minst'l. 

168 Em'rs'n & Clark notthiseve- 

ning, Some other Evening. 

169 Fcur Eccentric. 

170 Fagan k Fox Derby Jockey. 
17* ley woods Prima Donna. 

172 Olympic Quartette. 

173 Slavin's Baby's got a cramp. 

174 Hengler's Quite to Utterly 

Uitter. 



$e w York Popular Publishing Co., 32 Beekman Street. 



